


The Albatross Around Your Neck

by woollen_pharaohs



Category: Flowers (TV)
Genre: Depression, Experimental Style, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 02:29:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15133097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woollen_pharaohs/pseuds/woollen_pharaohs
Summary: “I should probably tell you, there was one time where Shun did sort of try to give me a hand job but I’m almost 100% certain that he just misunderstood what I was asking for…”





	The Albatross Around Your Neck

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Foals' song Albatross. 
> 
> Kind of non-con but in the British way of being too polite/self-loathing to let someone down.

Maurice stands in his shed for a very long time.

 

 

 

 

 

“I’ll make some tea! The British love tea! Makes them very happy!” Shun says excitedly.

Maurice flinches at the sound of his voice. He’d forgotten Shun was there.

The door to the shed slams shut and Maurice listens to a few seconds of Shun’s rapid footsteps over the muddy ground before slipping back into his trance. He thinks maybe, if he stands very still, inspiration will find him, will catch up to him like the panting puppy that would lope around him when he was younger, relentless in trodding on his toes and licking the tips of his fingers. He had so much to do.

He looks at the large drawing Shun has on his easel depicting a woman with massive tits and a man with a raging boner and thinks that it’s rather oppressive. The threads in his jacket ache when he lifts the canvas and turns it over, leaving the great expansive of white to glare back at him. Also very oppressive.

Shun really is a very talented young man, surely there must be something else that’s easier on the eyes. He moves stiffly over to the bench and swipes his frozen hands through the swathe of paintings strewn over the surface, a moment of fervent earnestness capturing him to find something of Shun’s that he can display on the easel in lieu of the gargantuan genitalia featured.

He feels his interest waning rapidly. Moments before he gives up, his hand lands upon a watercolour painting on a little square piece of paper. He pulls it out from the larger mess of art and fits it in one hand, the bottom corners jutting into the swell made by his thumb and the deep crevice between his pinky finger and palm. The image blinks back at him. A palette of pastels depicting a woman essentially naked save for a stringy bikini, standing on a beach looking out at the ocean while the wind sifts through her short hair and loosens the ties on her bikini.

It reminds Maurice of a holiday with Deborah. He’d taken the whole family along to the seaside while he went to a conference, and in the afternoon, Deborah relented to the twins’ insisting that they wanted to go swimming despite it being really rather cold. Deborah had been tentative to swim herself, setting about cleaning the shore of seaweed before seriously considering a dip, and Maurice had sat on the cold sand, watching the sea disperse more seaweed where Deborah had already eradicated any trace.

That night they’d had a hard time putting the twins to bed because Amy kept reacting to Donald’s very loud complaints about the hundreds of sea shell cuts he got on the soles of his feet. Maurice remembers that he was rather hopeless. He’s always been rather hopeless as a father and a lover. He remembers that he and Deborah had sex that night, not terribly good sex but he was so in love with her. He was so attracted to her, and felt that she was to him as well. He felt loved. Bolstered by being a renowned author loved both nationally and internationally as a best-seller. He was rather selfish, really, because he didn’t appreciate how truly impressed he was by how she could handle anything, and what that meant for her own psyche.

His legs are tired from standing up and the skin in his palms puckered by the sharp paper and he doesn’t want to think about how much of a disappointment he has been to literally everyone in his entire life, so he looks at the painting some more. Sets it on the easel and looks at the little picture and looks at the slight curve of breasts either side of the woman’s body that he hadn’t seen before at first glance. A more modest sexual display, though the cleft of the woman’s buttocks are highly visible, and, admittedly, rather attractively shaped for a woman much younger than he’s suited to.

For the sake of not relapsing into vicious thoughts, he indulges himself in the allure for a time, running his eyes over her figure, relishing in her hidden expression so that her eyes may not tell him the truth. And, rather surprisingly, he finds himself getting hard.

The shed door creaks open and Shun’s voice sings, “I brought tea!”

Without even really thinking, Maurice turns to Shun with a huge grin on his face and cries, “I’ve got a stiffy!”

Shun balances two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits, a slip of tea splashing out as he sets it all down on top of a pile of books. He sends Maurice a questioning look.

Maurice gestures at the watercolour painting now on display on the easel. “Shun, it’s amazing. I haven’t had a stiffy in months and I got one from looking at your painting!”

Shun brushes off his clothes as his way of a reply, but then repeats the same questioning look Maurice’s way.

“A stiffy! A hard-on! A boner! An _erection_!”

Shun nods. “Ah, you mean ‘bakki’. What are you going to do?”

Maurice’s shoulders sag. What _is_ he meant to do with this? He’s not going to waltz into his old bedroom, rouse Deborah and show off to her that it _is_ possible for him to get it up, because that’s absolutely ridiculous, and he’ll lose it halfway across the lawn anyway.

“Will you let Mrs Flowers take care of it?” Shun prompts.

“No. No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” Maurice says, feeling his blood ebb away.

“Okay,” Shun says assuredly, “I know what to do.”

Shun suddenly cuts the distance between them and, without Maurice being able to deflect him, Shun cups Maurice’s bulge. Maurice’s eyes go wide. He’s so shocked that for a moment he just lets it happen. Then, he attempts to distance himself by collapsing in the seat behind him, only Shun’s hand follows him as if he has glued himself.

“Ooo,” Shun coos, “It’s a big one!”

“Oh, no, Shun…” Maurice stammers. Shun kind of leans over him, attached, and Maurice freezes, jarred by the way that his cock responds _positively_ despite the fact that he’s currently being touched by a young Japanese man. “...I think you’ve misunderstood.”

“Ah, it’s easy. I’m stand in for Mrs Flowers.” Shun grins. He tilts his head, squares his shoulders, but never lets go of Maurice. Rather, he begins to stroke him through Maurice’s trousers. “Yes. I’m Mrs Flowers, your wife. Very big legs. And ah… ah… teeth!” He kind of juts his jaw out. “You find that sexy?”

Maurice shakes his head, his eyes still so wide.

“Ah… what’s sexy… Oh yes, boobies! International win.” Shun pulls at his sweater so that the fabric puckers. “Eh, not very good. What about… eyes? Mrs Flowers has ah, very ah… _intense_ eyes. They are… blue?"

"Brown. Deborah's eyes are Brown. Shun, would you kindly-"

"Yes. Brown. They are kind... Are they? You think they are kind. Maybe I should ah... Rub. Do you like that?”

“No, Shun. I don’t like that,” Maurice says flatly. “I’d like you to take your hands off me now, please.”

Shun frowns deeply. His thumb caresses Maurice’s clothed, aching cock, then he drops his hand and looks, overall, rather dejected. No, _disappointed_. Maurice has disappointed so many people in his life. He’s been a disappointing son and a disappointing father and a disappointing husband and Shun might be the happiest person Maurice has ever met. The last thing he wants to do is make someone as happy-go-lucky as Shun absolutely miserable - like he has done to everyone else in his life.

“Do you… like that?” Maurice voice contorted in confused hesitation.

“What, Mr Flowers?” Shun replies in the saddest tone Maurice has ever heard Shun use.

Maurice’s cock twitches with the absence of touch. “Um…. uh…. masturbating?”

Shun’s face lights up. “Yes, Mr Flowers. Masturbation is very good. Did you know, Koreans? Not allowed to. Very stupid. Makes you happy! Big stress relief! Yes. Very good. Very good feeling.” Shun pauses, eying Maurice. “I think you need this. I will help you.”

This time, Maurice is able to protest. “I don't want you to-”

Shun ignores him and finds Maurice’s stiffy again and begins massaging him more earnestly. Shun leans down, his face a little too close for Maurice so he lets the tasteless guilt pull him further into the chair.

“You are very big, Mr Flowers! I wonder,” Shun says, a glint in his eye, “If you are bigger than me!”

Maurice snaps his eyes shut and grimaces.

“Yes, that’s good,” Shun coos, “Close your eyes. Let me help you.”

Maurice feels his thighs warm as Shun lowers himself between his open legs and Maurice kicks himself mentally for leaving that opportunity open to Shun. He’s not really into having a small Japanese man rub him off but, aside from the crushing fear of disappointing yet another person, a small part of him can’t exactly let this thing go to waste. But he can’t think about Shun. He’ll lose it entirely if he opens his eyes and takes in the sight of Shun jerking him off, so he tries to go back to the nice memory lane he had been wandering down earlier. Imagining that it’s Deborah’s near-naked body windswept on the beach, the cool autumn sun illuminating the freckles across her bare shoulders.

He thinks about all of that very hard and with much determination when he feels Shun working to unbuckle his belt, and Maurice frightens himself by letting out an exasperated moan when Shun has to use both hands to loosen his belt.

“You help, Mr flowers. Lower,” Shun says, suggestively tugging at the hem of his trousers. “I get some oil. Very slippery. Much better.”

Maurice refuses to open his eyes, even when Shun briefly leaves him to fetch the lube, and Maurice has to pause in a moment of thanks that Shun didn’t opt to just use his own spit. Nevertheless, by the time Shun returns, Maurice has shucked some of his trousers down, though has left his cock snug inside his underwear.

“Hmmm…. Mr Flowers…” Shun begins, coaxing him. “Still cannot see! No help whatsoever! Who will know which is bigger? Me, I will know.”

Shun picks at Maurice’s underwear and Maurice lets him pull the fabric over and expose his cock to the tepid air inside the shed. Shun’s hand quickly wraps around him, and a splodge of lube gets lathered around his shaft. Maurice moans again, a sound that sounds alien to him. Shun chuckles and Maurice tries not to hear it. Tries to fall back into his reverie. Deborah’s brown hair in the wind, her shoulder blades softly curving beside her spine. Two little dimples above her bum that mirror the F-holes on a violin. Watches the way her muscles spread as she stretches her arms over her head. And then turns.

She faces him, her eyes indifferent to the colour of the dreary sky. Her mouth downturned, a depressive direction which continues in the fall of her shoulders, the limpness in her fingers and squared by a stern fixture in her stance upon the dry sand.

Shun brings him to completion the moment Maurice’s imagined Deborah meets his mind’s eye. Cum ropes out of his cock in waves which erupts a series of shameful groans from him, and without being able to really relish in the emotionless release, the ejaculation rips the sadness out of Deborah’s figure like a tablecloth being yanked out beneath hundreds of fragile plates and glasses and sets of sharp silver cutlery. Except the magician’s trick fails and rather than separating neatly, everything that Deborah contains within her -- her anxieties, her control, her love and her hate, her scorn, her impatience, her idiocy, her insensitivity, her guilt, her judgements -- all gets dumped on the sand in a crashing tsunami that drenches the shore and rushes up to his throat and drowns him.

Maurice chokes, his eyes snapping open, and he sees Shun sitting on his heels looking very happy with himself. Maurice goes very limp. He lets Shun clean him up and tuck him back into his underwear and Shun even wraps a blanket around him and sets his cup of tea close enough to reach. And Maurice just feels

  


 

  
  
  
  


 


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